Setting Goals

When working on a college application workshop for high school students today, I wrote the question, “What are your life goals?”  It gave me pause, and my mind went rambling.

Those of you who know me well know that I love setting goals.  Every time I hit a crossroads in life, I look back at my goals, make new goals, and see how the paths may lead to achieving these goals.  I make birthday resolutions of goals for my new year.  I have a “dreams and desires” notebook that I’ve kept since my freshman year of college which holds just that – dreams and desires – as well as a 6-year-old Dove dark chocolate wrapper with the ‘promise’ “Make a list of your dreams”.  When mentoring youth, the first thing I challenge them is to make a list of their goals, dreams, and ambitions.  It tells you a lot about who you are, how you were made, and what you were made for (sorry for ending this sentence with a preposition; it’s the Minnesotan in me).

So I thought about my goals.  And I realized that it’s time to seriously reevaluate…because I have achieved most of them.  Yeah.  I’m not bragging or anything, but I feel kind of at a loss.  I’m not even 25 and I’ve achieved most of the goals that I listed: Live abroad: check.  Go to graduate school: check.  Write a book: check.  Go white water rafting: check.  Learn Italian: check.  Learn recycled breathing: Well, I haven’t really started working on this one yet…

But seriously.  Apart from a few adventure goals (explore the Amazon), the funny dreams (be in a Narnia movie), and the very intangible (make a difference), there’s nothing left.  Except to run a marathon, and I’m pretty confident that this won’t happen while I live in Bangalore because the pedestrian safety of this city (aka the walkability of its streets/sidewalks) is .46.  Not sure of what scale that’s on, but I am pretty confident that it is over 50% less than walkable.  Not to mention that every time you try to run, you get chased by a dog. Or two. Or three. Or more.

So. perhaps its time to write more life goals. 

Or maybe, just maybe, my life has taken the turn into an era where I don’t have SMART goals, I don’t have a timeline of my life and of what should happen where.  Rather, I have overarching themes which I want my life to follow – always seek to know God, be known by Him, and make Him known.  Prioritize relationships.  Never stop learning, questioning, contributing.  Love what I do and make sure I am always striving to make a difference.  Live creatively.  Laugh a lot. 

The thought of a life without concrete goals scares me a bit; I really like crossing things off, looking at the list of goals with a little tickmark and a date next to it.  And makes me more than a little bit aware that I don’t want to live aimlessly; without definite purpose.  But there is a strange freedom in the ambiguity of themes, and it’s a freedom that lets me hold onto my life with hands wide open.  A freedom that reminds me to love what I do and do what I love, to never settle for anything that drains me instead of energizing, and to be good to and real with myself at all times.

Hmmmm…

Gross but Beautiful

I recently got an email from a friend that included the text "I've never been to India, but I hear it's both gross and beautiful just a few blocks apart."
This made me stop and think.  and I've been thinking ever since.
Yes, this could be right.  In fact, I think it's the idea that most people have of India - they get it from the media, from others' experiences.  India is colorful, rich in culture, beautiful in people and architecture, but at the same time is dirty, impoverished, loud.  India is ripe with contradiction, and one lives in the midst of disparity.
Every morning I walk through the slum on my way to and from the gym.  I love this area - there are vivid colors, children laughing, a pure simplicity and vibrancy of life and community.  It is beautiful.
But as I walk, I pass babies toddling around naked.  I pass children squatted on the sidewalk, on the side of the street, taking care of their morning business.  I pass men standing on the other side of the wall, urinating.  Some may consider this gross; I can imagine some people I know turning their head, repulsed, saying something like, "Oh thanks, I really needed to see that."  And I am very conscious of the fact that the puddle on the ground aren't from last night's rain.  Yes, it may be gross, but I consider it injustice and  a lack of dignity for these human beings.  I pass fathers bathing their children, mothers washing clothes, both rationing water carefully.  I look at my water bottle and realize that what I take for granted, consider a right, even, is a privilege. (Not to mention the fact that I am on my way to the gym.  Where I pay money to exercise.)
When I walk through the slum, I am invading lives.  But I have no choice; they have no choice.  I'm embarrassed, try to avert my eyes, but everywhere there is life; life that is not mine, life most would consider private, life I should not observe.  And it is hard.  Every morning, my heart breaks.  Every morning, I ask why.  And every morning, I wonder what I am doing that makes any difference.
I have even found myself anticipating the day I have a two-wheeler so that I can ride through without looking.
But then I chide myself.  Just because I don't look doesn't mean it doesn't exist.  I don't ever want to become so unaware or calloused that I don't look.  And, even more, I don't want to live my life looking without seeing.

Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. (Mark Jenkins) 

Children's Day

Today is Children's Day in India, a holiday that we don't commemorate in the U.S.  Why?  I don't know.  When we celebrate children, we celebrate their innocence.  Their joy.  Their laughter.  Their potential.  We want to encourage them.  Empower them.  Learn from them.  Treasure every moment with them.

 Precious.  Precious is this child, and precious is her life.  She is an Adivasi child, living in a small cement house in the clearing of the jungle in Wayanad.  She is the majority of India.  She may fight many odds, but she is the future of India.  She is precious.

 Deepa.  Deepa means light, and her smile brings just that.  

When I see this photo, I can hear the laughter.  Feel the trust. The attitude is carefree; I want to capture that feeling and their love and have it with me always...and then I want to jump into the picture and play, too.

One Year Later

Tonight my house became a home.
Although my little apartment isn't "finished"
and there are still things I want to do -
hang my clocks on the wall,
buy a rug,
turn my maintenance room into an inspiration room -
I knew that in reality it would never be "finished"
and if I didn't have a housewarming party soon,
I never would.

I had 10 people to my humble space
and it was full of warmth, laughter, and conversation
until 1am.
As many of you know, I have a weird memory thing
that allows me to remember
exactly what happened on what day
in days gone by.
It's my "special gift",
as a new friend just named it.

What happened on this day last year?
Read the blog entry from November 6, 2010.
I said goodbye to dear friends,
faced the reality that in no time I would be saying goodbye forever,
and bawled like a baby, holding my girls.

One year later,
I live in Bangalore.
Goodbyes are no longer forever,
I see my girls often,
and one of those dear friends is sitting on my couch.

Life is funny,
God is sovereign.
It only makes me wonder with a smile
What a year from today will hold...

Bob Dylan Across Cultures

Today I heard a beautiful story.

I was at a live poetry night at a local café, so clearly the question, “Who is the greatest cultural figure to come from Minnesota?” wasn’t unexpected.  During my time in India, I have learned that the correct answer to this question is (clearly) Bob Dylan.  The guy I was talking to (We’ll call him D) had a lightbulb “aha” moment where he said, “Yes! THAT’s why I know Duluth Minnesota!  You know, Bob Dylan inspired me to write.”

After the poetry readings, I asked him about his Bob Dylan story.

When he was young, 15/16, he worked at an office.  Work started at 9, but he always came early because he liked to watch the day begin – the maids washing the floors, the flower man bringing flowers, the chai guy setting up outside, a fresh start to a new day.  This was during the time that personalized music ringtones were coming out in India, and they advertised them online.  They advertised simply by playing the song to a screen that said “If you want this ringtone, dial this number.”

It is safe to say that the majority of these busy bees preparing the office for the day to come were of a lower caste, and most didn’t speak a lick of English.  I imagine them simply sharing the space, sharing the morning, being comfortable in each others company.  One day, D had fought with his girlfriend and was especially glum.  One of the workers, a guy from Pune, noticed his demeanor and asked why he was down.  Upon receiving the answer, the worker picked up the phone, dialed, handed D the receiver, and said, “Listen.”

It was Bob Dylan’s Tambourine Man. 

When the song was over, they redialed and listened again.  D was calmed, brightened, cheered.

D asked, “But how do you know this song?”

The worker answered, “I just hear it on the television, and I liked it.  Anytime that I am down I just call the number and listen to this song.  It always makes me feel better and makes my day a little brighter.”

He had merely heard the song on TV.  He didn’t know Bob Dylan as an artist.  He didn’t speak English and therefore didn’t understand the song.  But this didn’t matter – what matters is that the music soothed his soul…so much that he wanted to share it with another in need.

And that, my friends, is the beauty of art.  It speaks across languages, across cultures, across class.  While this worker may not have understood the words of the lyrics, he still understood. 

I am the White Girl Who Opened the Pressure Cooker

I am the white girl who opened the pressure cooker

Everyone told me not to do it.

Just two days ago, I had a conversation

And vehemently affirmed that I would never

- Ever -

 Open the pressure cooker while it was cooking.

Why would I want an explosion, steam, burns?

That would just be stupid.

That was two days ago…

But today is always a different story.

I was cooking black-eyed-peas

In an effort to re-create a yummy masala that I made last week.

Boil the beans, empty the water.  Boil the beans, empty the water.

Simmer for 45 minutes.

I put the cover on the pressure cooker during the simmer step…

And realized about halfway into it that it hadn’t steamed at all.

For some reason,

I took this as a sign that I shouldn’t have put the cover on,

That it wasn’t working,

And I should take it off and simmer coverless.

What I didn’t realize

Was

That if it hadn’t steamed at all in 20 minutes,

There was a heck of a lot of pressure in the cooker.

I wrestled with the cover.

This should have been my first sign

That the cover shouldn’t be removed.

But I failed to heed the warning

And continued to wrestle it off.

I had the sense enough to know

That it was indeed going to explode at least a little bit,

(Why did I continue?)

And I was prepared to jump back when it did.

Well, let me tell you…

It definitely exploded.

The cover came off.

Steam poured.

Beans flew.

Water boiled.

I jumped…but not fast enough.

My kitchen is a mess -

but it made for a good Twitpic.

I have quite the burn on my hand -

but I’ve been told that all Indian ladies

have burnmarks on their hands from the cookers…

Looks like I’m now officially an Indian lady.

I’ve already been mocked

(by my boss)

Scolded

(by my friend)

And “tut-tutted” over

(by my neighbors).

The burn mark tells it all,

And because my cooking skills were already in question

(I have this problem with burning rice…)

I’ll probably never live it down.

Yes, I am the white girl who opened the pressure cooker.

Cheating the Grocer

Whenever I go grocery shopping, I feel as if I have cheated the grocer.  Like I am getting away with way more food than I have paid for.  Which means that when I go back to the grocery store, I worry that the cheapness of the last time was a freak accident and that I won’t even have enough money to buy my food.

This happens while I am in the checkout line.  Today I had my okra, tomatoes, onions, sweet oranges, garbanzo beans, white lentils, black eyed peas, a ready-made opma breakfast mix, a soft-drink mango juice, and two candy bars.  Enough to feed me for a week, with the exception of perhaps a few more veggies along the way (I stocked up on my rices and spices long ago).  With the dried and packaged goods, gauging price is no problem because I can count up the stickers.  When it comes to fruits and veggies, though, I have no idea how to measure what it will cost.

I was not to worry today, though, because – whether by freak accident or by true math – my grand total was 196 rupees.  The conversion? $3.97.  Four dollars to feed me for a week.  My mind is racing as I walk home – I thought food prices are rising? Four dollars for a week? Man, if I bought this at home it would have cost so much money – who can I tell about my great buy?

Then, I look around.  I was walking through the slum area of my neighborhood, and immediately my thoughts changed.  196 rupees is, to the average Indian (according to purchasing power parity), a little more than $10.  Still not a bad deal if I would have bought my goods in America.  But my neighbors in this area may not make that in a day; perhaps not even in a week (I’m not positive on the socioeconomic status of the area I live). 

As I slowed down and looked around, stopped to chat with some children, my thoughts slowed down too.  They slowed and they transformed.  Now I become thankful, not just that I can buy so many fresh fruits and veggies for a “good price”, but that I am able to buy food.

Experiencing Expatriotism

I am an expat.

Yes, I confess it.

As much as I don’t want to be, I am one.

I can’t help it.

According to the dictionary, an expatriate is “a person who lives outside of his or her native country.”

Guilty.

But I solemnly swear that I am not like them.

I do not brunch at the Oberoi

Or lounge at the Leela Palace.

I don’t have a car and driver,

And I would much rather go to a play at the local Indian theatre

Than spend the night clubbing with other feringhees (foreigners).

I don’t see my time in India as transitory;

Rather, I am fully present (or at least try to be).

I’d prefer to converse with you about a topic of substance

Instead of complain about how difficult life in India is,

How “different” it is to work with “them”.

Please.

Have we ever thought about how “different” it is

For “them” to work with “us”?

I brush my teeth with tap water

…and sometimes I drink it.

I eat with my hands.

I like taking autos.

And I ride the bus.

What brought me to India, you ask?

Well, I was here last year for a 6 month internship…

What’s that you say?

Yes, yes, I chose to come back.

This is My Town

I love Bangalore.  and I love that it's home.
Today I spent time with my friend from SIT who just arrived Friday for his practicum.  I met him on MG Road, we met some friends by UB city, walked Brigade and Commercial, and I dropped him at Shivaji Nagar.  It was SO fun to show someone around my town and to share with him my India :)
The best part?
We were in FabIndia and he was trying on some gorgeous kurtas.  I picked one up that was next to me so I could feel the embroidery, and the salesman said, "That is a large, madam" to which I replied "Yeah, that's too big - I need a small."  The security guard laughed and said something to the salesman, who then turned to me and asked, "Excuse me madam, but are you a regular here?"
I was taken aback.  "Well, I haven't been here for 8 months, but when I lived here last year I came often and always brought friends..."
"Yes, madam.  It is just that this guy here just told me that I don't need to tell you about sizes because you were a regular and used to come often."
I am a regular at FabIndia.
The second best part?
After making sure Cabbie got to the right platform and knew his bus number, I walked back down Commercial to catch an auto at dispensary.  I haggled for a price, feeling like this guy was a bit familiar but not knowing how.  Once we started driving, he turned to make conversation.
And I knew.
This was the driver I had last December who taught me how to drive an auto rickshaw.
I answered his question about how long I had been and how long I was staying, and then I said, "But I lived here 6 months in 2010, and I think that you drove me in December.  You taught me how to drive your auto...?"  He looked back at me, looked at the road, looked back again and said, "Ahhh yes madam!  On Hennur Main Road - Kothanur!"
"Yes!" I said, laughing.
"Do you want to drive today? After Mekhri circle?" he asked.
"No, no. It's dark, and there is traffic, and the road is so busy!"
But when he pulled over after Mekhri circle and motioned for me to get into the front seat, I couldn't resist.
And I drove myself the rest of the way home :)

Running into People I know

My coworker takes French lessons at the Alliance Francaise, and this week they were having some cultural events.  It is right down the street from the office, so after work we ambled over to check it out.
We were early for the concert, but there was an art exhibition opening.  Of course we'll take the free wine, thank you.  They also had bread and cheese, which was very cute and French.  We stood chatting with each other, wanting to meet new people but unsure how to go about it, as everyone seemed to stay with the people they came with.  None of Suma's classmates were there, so she was bummed she didn't know anyone.
"Wait a minute," I said.  "I think I know those people - see the man in the hat with traces of pink in his beard?  I'm pretty positive that they sat by me on the plane from Delhi on the way here....yeah, there's his wife.  I sat by her...I slept the whole time though. Should I say hi?"
We ventured over and stood on the outer ring of their conversation circle.  When they looked at us inquisitively, I said, "Hi - I'm Jen.  I think I sat by you on the plane from Delhi 3 weeks ago...?"  He looked at me and said, "Yes, yes you did!  I remember your hair.  And you must remember my beard." (I'm glad he said that before I did!)  His wife said, "I think that you must have been very tired, because if I remember you were sleeping the entire flight."  Yeah, sorry I was antisocial.
We chatted for a while, though, and it turns out that they are very active at the Alliance Francaise.  She took our numbers so that she can let us know what is going on, and "we don't have to wait for that - we can have coffee."
Suma turned to me and said, "Of course.  I'm the Bangalorean.  I'm the one who is a student here.  But I don't see a single person I know.  You have been living here 3 weeks, and already you are running into friends."
What can I say? It's a small world.  And if you look around, you might start to see (my favorite quote by Anne Lamott, found in the book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life).

Getting Settled

Today I FINALLY finalized on a cute little apartment!!!!
I found one I mostly liked last weekend, near an area I was familiar with, for the right price.
But when I visited again, I started having my doubts. It was kind of cramped, not a lot of light or ventilation, and I would had had to buy a lot of extra things - aka a refrigerator and a stove, which is kind of pricy.
Today, in the afternoon of when I had to say yay or nay, though, my friend burst into the office and said, "Jen! I found you a house!"
She had been eavesdropping on a conversation while shopping, which led her to a broker (who actually knows her father) which led us to this house.

It is in an area I am not that familiar with, but it is a bit closer to work (and still in a residential neighborhood so I am away from the hustle and bustle and honking...and there is lots of foliage!), has 24-hour security and covered parking for when I get my bike, and already has a stove and refrigerator.
The furniture is kind of reminiscent of Bethel's "chastity couches" but I'm excited to see what kind of magic I can work to make it a nice and cozy warm and welcoming space.
More pics to come!

#thingsidontloveaboutindia

Tonight it started monsooning at about 7:14.
We were supposed to leave the office at 7, but our call went late.
I was supposed to be home by 8 because the bank was coming over to verify that I hadn't given them a fraudulent address when I opened my account.

I love being caught in the monsoon unexpectedly. Seriously.  I know a lot of people hate it and find it inconvenient, and yes, sometimes it is inconvenient, but there's just this feeling of "well, I guess I really don't have control over anything, and the best thing I can do is stand here in / watching the rain until it's finished." and if you've read my blog from the last time around, you  know that there are some pretty classic moments that come from being monsooned.

But tonight, it was different.  I had to run outside in the pouring rain to try to catch an auto - it's kind of hard to convince them to drive me to Amruthahalli (where?!?) anyway, but in the rain it was double the fight.  Two turned me down, and when the third demanded way too much money I gave in so I wouldn't get soaked to the bone.

He complained the whole way there.  Oh, look at the traffic madam.  Oh, this is so far away madam.  Oh, I can't see through the windshield because there is too much rain madam.

Save it, buddy.  You chose to drive me here.  But at this point I decided that I wasn't going to ask him to drive me down the dirt road to the apartment - I would walk.

When he dropped me, he asked me for more money.  I was already paying double, I told him.  No way was he getting more.  I told him from the start where we were going, and this is what he signed up for.  Ten rupees, madam?  No.  A kiss, madam?  Definitely not.

On the list of #thingsIdontloveaboutindia?  Deciding not to barter for a dollar in order to stay dry, only to be stuck with a greedy driver who has the audacity to ask for a kiss after you've paid him double what he already deserved.

#thingsiloveaboutindia

I am so in love with India.
Why do I feel so at home?  What is it that connects me here?
Honestly, I can't articulate it.  But every day since I arrived I have just been bursting.

I looked at some apartments on Saturday.  I may have found one - a picture of the entryway below.  If I don't find anything I like more, at a better location or price, this is a keeper!  My favorite aspects: the walls of each room are different neon-pastel colored stucco.  On the list of #thingsiloveaboutIndia?  Life is colorful.

Saturday night, I got to walk down MG Road for the first time on my own after dark.  (Don't worry mom, I'm safe).  There is such a rush, such an energy, such a feeling that emerges when the sun goes down.  On the list of #thingsIloveaboutIndia?  Walking through the city - central or village - after dark.

It was Roshen's birthday Saturday, so I met up with a friend (Justine from Zimbabwe/France/England) and we stopped by The Rice Bowl to crash a bit of his party.  It was so fun to show Justine a little bit of the city, my city.  To have friends to meet up with.  On the list of #thingsIloveaboutIndia?  Having a history... and Roshen's giggle.

Post birthday dinner, we headed to meet a friend of Justine's.  As we left The Rice Bowl, she said something like, "Ok so I actually only met this guy once...." Instantly I knew we were going to be taken.  We were taking an auto to an obscure place of town that I had never been, and going to the house of a guy from some French island that she had only met once.  She cajoled me, reassuring that he was the friend of a friend, and I agreed to continue....although as out auto neared Whitefield, and this guy came out to meet us at the corner smelling like smoke, I had my doubts.  Don't worry, though, we made it, and met a lot of neat people.  It was an expat party, which is new to me: I haven't ever really hung out with or had the desire to spend excessive time with foreigners in India - I live in India, why would I want to find an American bubble?  But I decided to be open.  This party that we went to was in celebration of Chile's Independence Day, and there were people from all over the world.  A small group, but I was the only American (one Indian had lived in Minneapolis, though, which was fun). There was an Italian, Chileans, Spaniards, Japanese, Brazilian, Justine, and more.  I spoke Spanish, learned what brought people to India, discussed the caste system, and had a mojito.  On the list of #thingsIloveaboutIndia?  Hearing people's stories...and their reactions to India


This morning, I went to church.  It is held in one of the ritzier hotels downtown, but I tried to keep an open mind.  I was told it was mostly an expat church, and I worked through some of the issues listed above.  But I am glad that I went - totally an international crowd, including Indians, and I met some cool people, including some my age.  Afterwards, I was invited to lunch at the Oberoi, and although I would have loved to chat more, I had plans to go to Visthar...I was glad, though, because I still think it would be difficult for me to justify lunch at the Oberoi.  On the list of #thingsIloveaboutIndia?  The adventure of finding where I belong.


I took an auto to Visthar.  Well, to Kothanur.  Then I walked.  And I'm so glad that I did - my dog Max is still sitting at the same curve in the road as he was when I left in December!

I had a great day hanging out with the girls, reliving memories, being outside, and catching up with some of my friends on staff. As I walked back into town, I passed an old security guard on his bike.  He smiled and waved, and asked a question.  Biju drove by on his motorcycle, honked and waved and shouted hello.  I ran into Francoise on her bycicle, and we stopped to chat.  On the list of #thingsIloveaboutIndia?  Knowing I have a second home and family.  Oh...and girls wearing my sunglasses:

There was one auto at the corner.  And I couldn't convince him to take me home...which was okay, actually, because it was what I needed to convince me to take the bus.  I took the bus regularly before, but haven't taken it this time around and had absolutely no idea which busses to take.  However, I knew the roads now, so I was ready for the bus. I was also ready not to spend more money on transport.  I got on the first, to Ring Road.  However, it dropped me before the ring road, not afterwards.  So I played frog hopper and made my way across to wait for another bus, riding that to Hebbal circle.  Hebbal circle is really a circle, and once I got off the bus I had not a clue where I was or which direction I needed to go.  So I followed in the footsteps of of another girl who didn't seem to know where she was going, and asked a bus that might have been going where I needed to go.  They took me on, took a u-turn, dropped me off, and instructed me to walk across a narrow bridge, over the railroad tracks and wait at the bus stop on the other side.  It was dark now, and the other side was India alive.  SO many people, fruit stands, other vendors.  I bought my first pomegranate (couldn't resist) and asked him where to catch the bus.  He directed me AND told me which number to take, for which I was very thankful.  I am so glad I took the bus, and doubly glad that I didn't know where I was going....but that, now, I do know.  On the list of #thingsiloveaboutindia? Public Transportation (most people from my "new India life" would laugh...but it's true, I do!)

Wait - Jen is White?

As established yesterday, I have been here for 2 weeks now.  (Well, 16 days if you are my immigration officer).

Today at lunch, Divya commented on how weird it was having this white American girl in front of her eating rice with her hands.  Suma turned and goes, "Ok, so today for the first time, I have realized that you are white."

Divya looked up in mock shock:  "Wait - Jen is white?"

I said, "Suma.  I have been here 2 weeks.  You just realized this?"
Suma explained that she has recognized that people look at us when we were out, but all this time she has been wondering why.  And why it seemed to be a different kind of look.  Today, it clicked.  "They look at you, and then they look at me.  It is like they are amazed to be seeing a foreigner, and then wondering what I am doing with you.  It isn't just a glance - it is a different kind of look."

This was interesting, as clearly it's something that I realize (and am accustomed to) everywhere I go.  It is less this time around, and I think that can be accounted for by an increasing number of expatriates here in Bangalore.  But yes, I am still stared at.  I was wondering if they ever felt strange being with me, or realized if we are treated differently, but wanted to wait until they said something.

As we walked back to work, we passed through a large group of women heading the opposite direction. We were all acutely aware of their looks, the giggles.  "Why does it matter?  You're just white."

"Jen, I am going to make you a T-shirt" said Divya.  It will say, "I have white skin, and I have blonde hair.  But otherwise I am just like you."

FRRO (Warning, this is extremely long)

In India, there is a law that reads something to the extent of "If you are here on an employment or student visa and you will be here for more than 6 months, you have to register with the foreign regional registration office within 14 days of entering the country".

Since I arrived 2 weeks (yes, 14 days) ago, we have been on the ground running, trying to take advantage of as many work things as possible.  The FRRO had to happen, but we knew we had time.  So last week my coworker and I went online and downloaded the list of required documents so that when my boss returned from traveling he could sign them and we would be all ready to go.  We were lucky, too, because the office was listed as just down the lane from our office.

So when the big guy returned, he signed the documents and we hopped in the car to the office of the Police Commissioner...what do you know, there was a sign in the office that said, "FRRO moved to Double Road, Indira Nagar".  Should this be a surprise?  No, but for some reason we assumed that everything would be as they told us.  So we got back into the car and drove across the city in lunchtime traffic to Double Road, where they would admit only me, the one with the passport.  I stood in line, got my token, and was informed that the application I had wasn't correct and the one I was to fill out was actually from 1999 and had been photocopied about 1,200 times so the font was so blurry it couldn't even be read.  Not only that, but I was given a list of even MORE documents that were needed...luckily I had a few days left before I hit day 14!

This list included some crazy things - like proof of a PAN card.  But to apply for a PAN card, you need a bank account...and to apply for a bank account, you need a PAN card.  Oy vey.  Over the next few days I spent a LOT of time in our accountant's office, because they could pull strings for us to get all the logistics done. Each time we repeated the list of what we needed and by which date, and on Saturday they assured me that I would have my PAN acknowledgement and a photocopy of the ID card of the man who is leasing my apartment.  She said, "I will call you and let you know what time to come on Monday."

So here we are on Monday.   It is 10:30 and I haven't heard from her yet.  I gave her a call, and she said, "Oh, I am glad you called.  I need just a few more signatures - can you come?"  I came.  I was brought back to the bank, signed a few more things, and congratulations! I had a bank account and could apply for my PAN card.  She said, ok madam you are finished.  I said, "No - I need the acknowledgement of the PAN and I need that photo ID - you said both would be here this morning."

She said, "Madam, didn't he talk to you on Saturday?  We don't have a copy of the photo id because it was all given in hard copy and submitted - we don't have any copies."  PROBLEM: this guy is in Turkey.  The rest of his family is around the globe.  Most are in countries where it is 1am.  We can't reach anyone - what do we do?  After some panicking, we found an "if/or" clause and prayed that it would provide the loophole we needed.

As for the PAN acknowledgement, she sent her guy to go submit it to the office.  We waited 45 minutes, had some delicious coffee (I will miss that coffee, but I will not miss the CA's office!), and then realized that the guy didn't bring his phone.  We needed to leave by 1 at the latest...it was 1230.  So, she sent another guy to find that guy, and he reported that the first guy decided to go to an office further away because the office he went to first had a ridiculous wait.  We decided to leave.  She typed an official letter saying that we had applied so that at least we had SOMETHING.  This got her yelled at by her boss...for like 15 minutes while I sat avoiding eye contact with every Indian in the room looking at me and thinking "Who the heck is this white girl and what kind of problems is she causing?"  Finally, we got the letter.  We ran out of the office.  She promised to email it the acknowledgement as soon as she got it.

We drove like crazies to Indira Nagar - if we didn't make it by 2, I couldn't register.  This would increase my chances of deportation, which isn't ideal.  

Got in at 1:40.  I took my number....229.  They were on 180.  Awesome....50 to go.  After 20 minutes, my phone vibrated.  The PAN had come!  Suma texted...and went to get copies printed (she had her own issues there, but that would just increase my already long story) and handed them off to me in front of the office.  Finally - my application is complete.

I realized that I was not waiting in the right area, so I climbed the stairs to a (thankfully) air conditioned room full of weary looking expatriates.  I asked a blonde one what I was supposed to do: go to counter 1.  I went...and was informed that it was lunchtime and services would resume when they were finished. Of course. 

Once lunch was finished, I was the 3rd in line to submit my documents for approval.  The man looked over everything, and with a sigh of relief watched him check off every requirement (even as the couple next to me was asked for a photo id of the leaser).  But then he started counting dates on the calendar.  and again.  and again.  And he said, 14 days, madam.  I said yes sir, today is exactly 2 weeks since I arrived.  14 days.  He counted again.  It has been 15 madam.  You arrived in New Delhi at 4pm and you must register 14 days.  We argued for a bit...but to no avail.  Now before you wonder if I was going to be deported, worry not.  He gave me a piece of paper and a pen and said, "Write a letter."  A letter of apology that I had not registered before.  I needed a few special signatures, and I was sent to the next counter.

And then another counter.

At this counter, she did many things.  Double checked my passport, went through my document yet again.  Then wrote on a piece of paper and said, "Go to the bank.  Get a DD. Bring it back to me."  I said, "What is a DD?"  She said, "They will know."

I ran down the stairs and out into the street.  It was starting to drizzle.  Where is a bank? I asked the guard.  He motioned down the street and said there was one on the left at the next signal.  I reached the next signal - the rain is harder - and there was no bank.  So I started asking on the street, continuing towards the next signal and the next (thankful I was dressed like an Indian today so I could wrap my dupatta around my head and shoulders to keep myself a bit dry).  Finally, a foreign bank.  I gave them the slip, paid them the money, had to get signatures from every desk in the building, and headed back outside.

It was monsooning.

I made a run for it, but before long I had to take shelter.  It really wasn't worth it.  So for 35 minutes, a shared a small thing with a roof (I really don't know what it was) with two men, a woman, 3 children, and 2 dogs.  I kept thinking, it will stop in 5 minutes.  I called Suma after a while and she said, "Don't get drenched - it will stop in 5 minutes"  I said, that's what I've been telling myself for the past 20 minutes ;)  

I absolutely love getting caught in monsoons.  It's one of my favorite things about India.  Even today, I just stood and soaked it in (no pun intended).  I had my iphone and kept trying to capture the feeling of monsoon but nothing I caught does it justice.  Here is one snap, though:

Finally, it let up enough to run.  So I made it back to the FRRO, dripping wet, and had to show my passport yet again.  "They have all my documents upstairs" I explained.  "DD?  You need a photocopy" They told me.  

Awesome.

Thankfully, I could make copies next door.  Which means I gave the man the DD (I still don't know what that is, by the way) and 2 rupees and he put the paper in the Xerox machine for me...and it was so old it took about 4 minutes to make a copy :)  Only in India.

I went back, stood in line again, and was sent to a different counter to give a man the DD.  He took it and sent me back the other counter, where I gave the photocopy.  She said ok, please sit and wait.  I will call you.  So I sat.

By this time, they were almost on token #229.

She called me and handed me a paper.  Please check this, she said, but sit, don't check it here.  I checked it for inconsistencies, and stood up, waited in line, and gave it back to her.  She looked, and gave it back to me.

"Okay, madam."

"Oh - I am finished?"

"Yes, madam."

"This paper is my registration"

"Yes, madam."

So there it is, the whole saga.  If you have ever complained about the DMV, I invite you to try immigrating.   I know that other people have to go through a lot more in order to immigrate, and I am thankful that mine was just inefficient and time-consuming (although sometimes I felt like I was on the Amazing Race).

However, that doesn't mean that we didn't celebrate with Cornerhouse hot chocolate fudge sundaes.  And it doesn't mean that I'm not exhausted.

Can't wait to do it again in 6 months!

Clash of Cultures

Today, two worlds collided.  And lest you be deceived by the title of the post, please note that my own personal American culture had nothing to do with the clash.  Rather, it was a clash of two Indian cultures; two worlds that I experienced within 5 hours.

I spent the day at my old NGO, and it was a joy and a privilege to surprise the girls when I walked onto their campus this morning.  As I got close, I could hear the murmers and questions, “That looks like Jen-aunty - Is that Jen-aunty?” and then, running: “Jen-aunty!”  There were lots of hugs, some tears (none from me), and much happiness.  One of the first things that Rajeshwariya did was start combing my hair, and don’t worry mom, I’ve already checked for lice.  They have moved to a new dorm, still living around 20 to a room on bamboo floor mats, rotating kitchen shifts, doing chores, and studying during every free moment.  The homework the 16/17 year old girls were working on?  Learning the parts of a computer (monitor, speaker, keyboard, CPU, hard drive, etc.) and duplicating them in a poster board sketch.  We had a very rough medical information session on high blood pressure (which was pretty inapplicable since most of the girls are rail-thin and they don’t eat anything but the rice of the day...they don’t even have access to the soda, fried foods, etc. that were being warned against in the session as the causes of “the silent killer”), and came back to eat rice and chicken curry (a Sunday treat) with our fingers out of tin plates.

Fast forward through an incredible, fun, and exhausting day to my evening meeting at the apartment of a girl who wants to go abroad but whose father has his doubts.

We parked the car outside of the gate because there was no room in the underground parking lot and walked in to a posh apartment with music blaring (Queen and the Rolling Stones).  Were offered whiskey and wine (whiskey seems to be the Indian drink of choice), nachos, finger veggies (that we ate with a fork), sausages on toothpicks and fried cheese balls.  The father talked about his time working in fashion merchandising (and when I say fashion, I don’t mean Hanes her Way.  I’m talking Oscar de la Renta here), and the daughter’s iphone rang during our conversation.  We gave her a hard time for being 16 and having an iphone...at which she told us that she has had a phone since 5th grade, all her friends have iphones, and her father interjected with his opinion that mac is the best and that is why they all need their iphones, macbook pros, ipads, and macbook airs.  And how wonderful it is that we can now run a Google search for finding study programs in the U.S. instead of needing to go to the library to look through the college board review.

Wealth - and lack of it - in India is absolutely mind-boggling.  We’re looking at 16 year old girls who live just a bus ride down the road from each other living such vastly different lives and anticipating completely different futures.  I think that is the part that is incomprehensible is not that there are people who are filthy rich, and not that there are people who are more than dirt poor, but that these two groups live side-by-side.

P.S. Today I also met the new batch of students from the program I worked with last fall, AND played my first game of cricket today.  For our at-bat, I was the first batter.  And stayed batting through to our very last out.  I bowled pretty well too, and have determined that I have finally found my athletic calling.  Several also say it confirms that I really am an Indian...who just happens to be white.

Living in a Dream World

Well today was a blast from the past.  I heard from Sid on Thursday that Roshen wanted to hang out with us on Saturday - was I free?  He didn’t even need to ask...I’m clearly always free for a triple date with Sid and Roshen.  The most exciting part was when Roshen texted, though, asking if I meeting at 4pm outside of Gangaram’s was ok.  I got butterflies in my stomach and almost squealed, “EEEEEEE” from my air-conditioned car.   Gangaram’s is a multi-level bookstore; what better place to meet Rosh than at a bookstore.  For old time’s sake.  But when I got there, we didn’t even step inside.  I heard him giggling before I even saw him, and he swept me into a hug and away over to India Coffeehouse, where we chatted quite awhile until, “Jen, I think we have exhausted our white privilege here, and we should move on to another coffee shop.”  Siddo met us at Coffee Day, and we caught everyone up on everyone else’s work...then moved to the Empire for dinner, where we hemmed and hawed and laughed and groaned over last year’s program, and finally on to Cornerhouse, which is simply the best ice cream I have ever tasted.  They have changed their sizing since I left in December, too - a regular is now 3 scoops, a junior size 2.  Same prices.  Booya.

Sometimes I feel like I am living in a dream.  As we were walking down the street to part ways, I finally verbalized what I had been feeling all night long - all week, even: “Guys, isn’t it weird that I live here now???”  Roshen just giggled.  

Sometimes I wait for something to happen to break the surreal feeling of it all, but as I rode on the back of the bike down back country roads, the Indian evening breeze whipping through my hair, it was pretty hard to believe that I had ever left at all.

A Full Friday

I feel as if I lived 3 days today.  And as I looked out the raindropped window at the crazy Bangalore traffic, I almost had to pinch myself.  This is like a dream.  It is so unbelievable that I live here.

We started the day with a visit to one of the public schools in Bangalore. We presented to and spoke with first the 12th standard and second the 11th.  It was awesome.  Awesome to get inside their heads, encourage their dreams, share with them opportunities that they may have to achieve them.

Then I met a government commissioner.  And I thought he was a pretty cool guy.  I mostly listened, but we talked education in India.  What does India have, what does it need.  How do we meet those needs, how can the government help us meet those needs.  He was very intent upon opening access to education for those who do not have it, and he warmed my heart.  A few days ago, I met someone who works for the Education USA (a cultural exchange of the State Department) and invited us to the consulate in Chennai.  I can’t believe the people I am meeting...or how even the most unanticipated people have connections and insight / input to your work.

Later, we went to UB City.  UB City is a place that I never stepped foot in the last time I was here - it is the high end shopping mall / restaurants.  Think Burberry, Louis Vuitton, Botega Veneta.  The apple store.  This is a whole different India.  We met a designer, and you could tell from his appearance the he was, indeed, a designer.  How I would envision Mark Jacobs or Mr. Valentino when they aren’t tuxed up:  Black top, dark jeans.  A few bracelets, salt and pepper beard.  He’s sold his successful design business, and is now working with artisans and crafts, several different brands, and trying to start a work skills program so that these gifted people can learn how to turn their craft into something profitable.  Awesome.  

And....I am exhausted.

Ganesha

Today was Ganesha’s birthday.  Ganesha is the elephant god in Hinduism, but he wasn’t always an elephant.  He was a god who lost his head due to one circumstance or another, but the head was luckily able to be replaced with an elephant head.  Ganesha rose above his obstacles to prosper, and for this reason is one of the most dearly loved gods of the Hindus.  And if you know anything of the history and situations of the Indian people, you understand the importance of prospering in spite of obstacles.

As I learned more about the festival and watched people bowing and praying earnestly to a small man-made elephant painted neon colors, I was struck by several things:

1. Someone told me that, beyond the celebration of Ganesha’s birthday, the purpose of the festival, and why many people celebrate, is to bring the community together.  So under the guise of community health and happiness, people worship an idol.  My thought: couldn’t we just have a block party?   
2. Many people don’t really believe in what they are doing, they bow down just because it is tradition or custom or fun, but they are still bowing down.  Which reminds me of (a) Christmas and (b) passages from the Bible that speak of worshipping in the right attitude, and worshipping in spirit and in truth.  Let’s tackle Christmas first...I could see many similarities.  It is the birthday of a god (Ganesha) / God (Jesus).  It is carefully prepared for by meticulous decorating, baking, and shopping.  Every part of the tradition is symbolic.  Gifts are brought from house to house.  Oh, and many people who celebrate Christmas don’t do so as the celebration of the birth of Christ; they celebrate for the sake of a celebration and community event that shares love and goodwill.  Hmmm.  And as for the latter thought, well, why would Ganesha want people worshipping him who don’t even believe that he is real?
3. Throughout the summer, I have been learning a lot about the curse of the Law and freedom in Christ.  Having this experience on Day 3 back in India reminds me even more of the freedom that is found in the new covenant that God makes with us through Jesus.  Today people were bowing, praying, offering sacrifices, burning candles, tying bracelets, all in an effort to find Ganesha’s favor and blessing.  Living in relationship with Christ, however, requires none such actions.  Rather, it makes it clear that faith is what saves us: “All who rely on observing the law are under a curse.  Clearly no one is justified before God by the law, because, ‘the righteous will live by faith’.  The law is not based on faith.  Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us. He redeemed us so that by faith we might receive the promise of the Spirit” (Galatians 3:10-14).  Even when looking at the Old Testament, the era of the Law, we see that “God’s covenant with Abraham wasn’t made because Abraham had obeyed a law, but because his faith in God made him righteous.  If Abraham and his descendants were given this promise because they had obeyed a law, then faith would mean nothing, and the covenant would be worthless” (Romans 4:13-14).  In what other religion do we find such freedom?
4. However, I was also speaking with somebody from Hindu culture, but not religious, and they mentioned that one thing they like about Hinduism as it is practiced in the mainstream today (thinking beyond caste tradition and historical social issues and in comparison with other religions) is that there is little to no hierarchy, reducing the amount of legalism, judgement, and “status quo” that they have observed in institutionalized Christianity and Islam. Hmmmmm.
5. Think about life in the United States and, those of you who are churched, what you are taught when you read, “Thou shalt not make for thyself an idol.”  Immediately you are advised that God should always be #1 in your life, and you shouldn’t replace Him with money, sports, success, relationships, etc.  But hardly ever do we realize that people still believe and live in literal idol worship today.  It’s a thing of the past, something that most (even those outside Christian circles) would consider strange or archaic.  But here in India, it is alive and well.  Gods adorn buildings, doors, jewelry, artwork.  Hindu mythology deeply impacts every aspect of human life.  It is a mentality that is deeply intriguing, but also mind-boggling.

Different Already

I knew that this time around, India would be different.  But I am already noting the vast ways in which these differences are extremely obvious.

Let’s start with my accommodations.  My first days are being spent in my boss’ building in an apartment that is owned by a professor who is in the United States 6 months and India 6 months.  It is two floors, multi-bedroom, living room, dining room, huge balcony.  I am alone in a palace.  And the places I am looking to live are so expensive (by Indian cost of living) that they make me nauseous.  Juxtapose this with my first days in 2010...my current bathroom is about the size of my living quarters last year.  There were cockroaches, moldy bathrooms, mosquito nets, a holey red tile roof.

Second, transportation.  We walked, took the bus, or took an auto.  Thus far, I have traveled only by air conditioned car, sometimes with a driver, sometimes driven by my boss. In this car, there is a remote control in the backseat so the passengers can control the volume/radio station on the stereo.  

Third: food.  I am eating solid, homemade Indian food in the mornings and evenings, and thankfully in smaller portions than I was fed last time around, but lunches are taken out or ordered in.  Yesterday the first question was, “Do you want to order pizza?”  We ended up going to Au Bon Pan (it was the only fastish place in walking distance that served something gluten-free...aka rice. in India!).  Today we ordered from an online menu and had Chinese delivered to the office.  Tonight I met up with some girls who are working at an international school in the area (both from England, but originally French-Zimbabwean and Colombiana)...we went to a cowboy-themed club where the mixed drinks cost as much as my tear-jerking steak last fall.  It was bumpin with the latest and greatest American music.  Pop/hiphop though, not country.  They clearly failed when it came to consistency with the theme.

And I just realized that, since getting here, I have been either in a car, in my office, or in an apartment building.  This is so different from the amount of time outside I had in 2010.  Scratch that, I was outside today...standing outside of the shopping mall trying to recruit students to serve as extras in our corporate video.

Deja Vu

As my plane landed in Bangalore last night, I felt a wave of nostalgia.

I remembered all the times I’ve been to this airport...

- arriving - scared and excited, I told Sid I was, “Fresh as a daisy” and he said, “welcome home”.  little did I know that it would soon become home.

- picking up the students - I felt like a local, and I was so excited for my kids.

- picking up my mom - nervous for my worlds to collide, but thrilled to share my life.

- flying to delhi - I was the “mom”, the guide, the leader.  and mom experienced white privilege firsthand for the first time the first encounter we had at the airport.

- returning from delhi - we hired a cab, probably the only driver in the city who spoke only hindi.  he got lost, and lost, and lost, and eventually we got out, walked to the rickshaw line, and hired an auto.  which was great, until the wheel fell off.  so we carried all our luggage to the bus depot and hired another auto to take us as far as a restaurant, and bribed another handsomely to finally take us home.

- dropping off my mom - she was so cute going through all the ticket lines, and after she made it through we went to find our driver only to realize he wasn’t answering his phone and we had no idea where he had parked...15 minutes of wandering the parking lot later, he finally answered.

- dropping off the kids - bittersweet.  this ended an era for them, for us. but i’m not going to lie, i was also excited to know i had my last weekend for me and only me to do with as i wished.

- leaving - terrible. cafe coffee day with Siddo and Roshen, laughs and jokes as we waited for goodbyes, even as I went through ticketing and signed with them through the window. but when I got to my gate...the waterworks began. and, minus naptimes, didn’t stop for a good 24 hours.

In December, Sid and Roshen said they gave me 6 months til I was back.

And here I am.

When I got off the plane, it was like deja vu...like I’d been here before. 

I'm back :)

I got to Delhi around 3:30 India time and had to gather my luggage, go through customs, and recheck my luggage before heading through security and to my gate.  My first thought as I entered the airport?  It smells like India.  When I was here before, I don’t think I recognized it because I lived in it.  But coming, back, the heavy mix of incense, sweat, spices, and people hangs in the air.  I smiled - I’m back.

While I was at the baggage claim, a couple other white men stood by me to wait for their bags.  One greeted me with a, “Well, you surely aren’t Indian.  Where are you from?”  I laughed and we went through the niceties - I am from Minnesota, he’s from Mississippi.  I asked what he’s doing here, he’s on business, and I couldn’t grasp from our conversation if it was short or long term.  He’d never been, but seemed to speak of his wife and home like it was so far away.  So I asked  “So are you here short term, then, or will you be here for awhile?”

His response: “Oh, well to me it seems pretty long term.”  I nod understandably, thinking maybe he’ll be here til Thanksgiving or Christmas like others I have spoken with.  

He continued: “I’ll be here until the 5th.”

I felt my eyebrows raise, and I asked, “of September?”

“Yes, I won’t go home until Labor Day.  What about you, how long are you here?”

I laughed and said, “Well, I’ll be here a little bit longer than Labor Day...”

Transitioning

One the way to Chicago, I did nothing but sip my grande nonfat chai latte and laugh.  Seriously.  Not too loudly, though, because I didn’t want the Laotian man next to me to think I was crazy.  Laugh because - hold on - I’m going back to India?  God is so funny.  I wonder what He was thinking back in December when I left Bangalore absolutely devastated.  He knew.  He knew that I had to leave to know how deeply I had loved, that I had to return home to identify what I had become, to remember His grace, to fully understand the meaning of home, and to not want to leave...again.  I was quite a piece of work for those 8 months, but I wouldn’t have given them up for anything.  I laughed because of the incredible sense of peace that I have, and as I meandered through Chicago O’Hare I heard a voice say, “He shall keep in perfect peace him whose heart is steadfast, because he trusts completely in Him”.  This is me, and I never want to leave this place.  And by place I don’t necessarily mean my geographic location; rather, this place of peace, of steadfastness, of trust.

Leaving

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again - leaving is the pits.  But sometimes, it’s the only way to get to where you’re going.  Become who you’re becoming.

My family has come to loathe airport goodbyes.  “Isn’t there some better way to do this?” we ask.  But alas, there is none.  I had a dry run last Sunday when we brought my sister to the airport so she could get to California for her senior year of college.  I held her hand the whole time, casting sideways glances down the ticketing counter towards the American Airlines, where I would be leaving in just one week...today.  Then, the sight of it made me want to throw up.  We cried, we prayed, and sent my little sister through security.  Watched her gather up her things, turn for one last wave goodbye, and then square her shoulders and walk confidently out into the great big world.  I used to love airports, they gave me butterflies of excitement in my stomach, but now they generally represent leaving, and the thought of leaving just makes me nauseous.

Today it was my turn.  JJ slept with me, but I only made it to bed for an hour before it was time to get up again.  And in that hour, he managed to steal all of my covers.  Thanks bro.  When  I woke up, the first thing I thought was, “I’m moving to India today.  What the heck am I doing?”  

The airport was hard.  I got all checked in by 6:40am, but didn’t need to head through security for at least an hour.  So Mom, Dad, and I sat with teary eyes watching the kiss and fly lane, holding each other, crying, and having the sendoff prayer.  We were quite the hot mess, that’s for sure.  But if it’s hard to leave something, it is because of the depth of your love for what you are leaving.  I am thankful that I can say that yes, I love Minnesota.  I love my family.  I love my friends.  You are my home, my community, my roots.  And I am so thankful that I stuck around long enough to be reminded of that.  Thank you for sticking by me, for loving me, and for reminding me of who I am when I forget.

My tears trickled off when it was time to go through security.  I gave Mom and Dad one last hug, heaved my carry-ons onto my shoulders, and headed through the line.  And as I did so, my sadness was replaced with peace, confidence, and anticipation.  I hate leaving, but I know that - for right now - this is right.  I waved once again, and with 12 minutes til boarding headed towards Starbucks to pick up one last treat.  9 minutes to boarding.  I left Starbucks and, as I passed the security line, had a feeling they were still there.  So I rambled by and sure enough, Mom and Dad were still holding each other, looking for one last glimpse.  

I smiled, waved, blew a final kiss, and turned to face the world.

Ode to JEN17

I sold my car yesterday.  But to me, she was so much more than a car.  She was kind of a person, a part of my family.  A part of many people's lives, and her teal green body brought many people joy everywhere she went.  Yes, I am almost 25.  But there was no way I would ever change her license plate, because she is, in all of our hearts, JEN17. We refer to her fondly as Jen, and talk about her as if she is a person.  My Dad pulled out of the driveway as I was preparing to clean her up for a prospective buyer, and his parting words were, "Be brave."

I needed that.  I cried several times throughout the day - I had been preparing for 3 years for Jen to die, but the idea of giving her away was something I hadn't considered...I wasn't ready.  I had been planning her funeral - we would all wear teal and come with a story, our favorite memory of JEN17.  JEN17 had many adventures :)  But none of this came to pass - the buyer came, took a look, pulled out the cash, I handed over the keys, and she was gone.  As I watched her drive away, I was filled with tidbits of advice that I wanted to shout after the new owner - "She runs better when you talk to her!"  "We sing happy birthday every time she turns 1,000 miles!"

But I refrained.  She isn't my JEN17 anymore.  After all, she was only a car.  When I had cleaned my life out of her (I wish I would have counted how many bobbie pins I found, and squealed with elation when I pulled out window markers used in high school pranks), I realized how true this was - that she was only a car.  As much as I wished she would turn "Herbie the Love Bug" on me and throw a fit when somebody else tried to drive her, she didn't know that she had a new driver, and she surely didn't care that we didn't have a going away party for her.

However, she was MY car.  My JEN17.  And, as ridiculous as it sounds, she was more than a car to me.

Words of Wisdom: To avoid becoming emotionally attached to your car, refrain from naming her after yourself.

This is Minnesota Summer

Summer is almost over, and it is almost time to move on.  Not into winter, but over to India.
Minnesota summer is my absolute favorite season of the year, and I hope that it is something that I will always be a part of.

If I had to sum it up in three photos, Minnesota summer would be best described by

 Sidewalk chalk.  This begins to appear in March, and it's a sure sign that summer is coming.
Creativity is uninhibited, and it continues in this fashion for the duration of the summer.
Games are created, memories are made, lemonade stands make bank.
This is Minnesota summer.

 Family week at the cabin.  It's a staple every summer, and without it my life wouldn't be complete.

Boating.  Game time.  Movie nights.  Photo shoots.
Laughing until your sides ache and tears are falling.
This is Minnesota summer.

Lake Calhoun.  I am here almost daily.  If you come to Minneapolis in the summer, come here.

Take a walk.  Read a book.  Meet a friend.  Make a friend.  Dog watch.  People watch.  

Ride a bike.  Rent a paddle board.  Walk into Uptown.  Take a nap.  

This is Minnesota summer.